With his controversial new film, "Richard Jewell," in theaters Friday, Clint Eastwood portrays the wrongly accused suspect in the 1996 Centennial Olympic Park Bombing as a nebbish hero with a heart of gold. Pushing a supply cart through a downtown office in the years leading up to the act of terrorism that shattered the city, Jewell leaves Snickers bars in the desk of frustrated attorney Watson Bryant — and dreams of a career in law enforcement.
When Jewell (the excellent Paul Walter Hauser) gets a job as a security guard, Bryant (Sam Rockwell) tells him not to let it go to his head. “A little power can turn a person into a monster,” he warns.
For the rest of the movie, shot on location in Atlanta over the summer and advertised as “based on a true story,” Eastwood and screenwriter Billy Ray make the case that the real monsters here are the FBI and the news media. In particular, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and Kathy Scruggs (Olivia Wilde), the real-life reporter who got the scoop that Jewell was the FBI’s prime suspect within days of the bombing.
In a troubling and unsubstantiated plot wrinkle, Scruggs snags the story of a lifetime by seducing the FBI agent in charge of the investigation (Jon Hamm), thereby wrecking the life of Jewell and his sweet-natured mother (Golden Globes-nominated Kathy Bates).
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The essential flaw of “Richard Jewell,” well made and powerfully acted though it may be, is that it plays into the dangerous false narrative, currently fomenting in American culture, that the news media is untrustworthy and the nation’s most venerated law-enforcement agency, the FBI, can be bought. In this case, for the offer of a quick trick with a trash-talking, high-cheekboned femme fatale who’s better at applying mascara than penning news articles.
A plodding opening sequence sets up Jewell’s backstory: Poor guy lives with his mother, drives a blue pickup with a 96rock sticker on the back window and loses his job as a small-time college security guard for being a bit too aggressive. Over and over again, he is bullied and humiliated, for his size and his good intentions. “Large and in charge,” as one smart-aleck kid puts it.
The drama really begins the second the bomb goes off. Suddenly, the festive playground where Kenny Rogers crooned and revelers danced to “La Macarena” becomes a gruesome crime scene. On screen, the moment of impact is hellish and visceral, the blood that splatters the red bricks engraved with the names of Olympic boosters indelible.
Soon after, Jewell is hailed as a hero for discovering the bomb, alerting the crowd, saving lives. Just as swiftly, in a cruel reversal of fortune, he is ensnared by lawmen looking for a handy scapegoat.
Meanwhile, have no fear. Scruggs is virtually all over it. She slithers up to the lead investigator (Hamm, with characteristic smirk). She hides out in Bryant’s back seat, hoping for an interview. She goads AJC managing editor John Walter (David de Vries) to man up and publish her story. The girl-reporter shtick is misogynistic and offensive; it demeans the profession.
Full disclosure: In 1996, I was employed as an arts editor at the AJC, and though I was never privy to any decision-making around the bomb coverage, I’m pretty sure that Scruggs never got a standing ovation from her colleagues while traipsing through the newsroom, flaunting her front-page extra edition as if it were an Olympic medal. (Move over, Michael Johnson.) In real life, such moments are reserved for Pulitzer Prize celebrations, several of which I did actually observe at the AJC’s former home at 72 Marietta Street in downtown Atlanta. (The paper is now in Dunwoody.)
That scene in which Bryant and Jewell storm the newsroom and demand a retraction: Are you kidding me? Even after two decades, I couldn’t get past the AJC front desk without my employee ID.
“Richard Jewell,” for better or ill, does offer a legitimate critique of the criminal-justice system: In pinning the blame on Jewell while the real perpetrator remained at large, the FBI failed at its task, leaving the public vulnerable to more terrorism. At the same time, when that agency is under attack and preoccupied with defending its reputation, it imperils us all.
The media, for all its imperfections, reported the story as it was conveyed by sources. In real time. Without benefit of 23 years of soul-searching.
To be certain, it’s not unusual for Hollywood to doctor the script of a so-called “true story” so that it adheres to tried-and-true formulas of popular storytelling. Without tension there is no story. The naughty are a lot more fun than the nice. Yet for a movie that purports to hold the press accountable for ruining a man’s life, “Richard Jewell” undermines its own credibility by intentionally distorting the facts.
Journalists have a responsibility to tell the truth. Artists are free to invent. Neither craft is more virtuous than the other. As an underdog tale that tugs at the heart strings, “Richard Jewell” is a triumph. Were it 100 percent true, it might flop. Its creators not only get that; they are banking on it. Nothing sells tickets like controversy.
